Beautiful Lie
by Razer Athane
Summary: A fabrication of his imagination. Or was it honest and real? -Hwoarang/Lili, Oneshot- For Sei Honou.


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Tekken still.

Author's Note: Okay so. This AU oneshot is for someone very special. She's the most adorable person around, and I speak for a lot of people when I say that I/we love her to bits. Lots of us do, we love her to bits, let alone her writing, her friendship, the way she wants Lars' cellphone number (XD!) and so on and so forth… I'm of course talking about **Sei Honou.** Shame on you if you don't know the most awesome Hwoarang/Lili writer on this site! _–glaaaare- _lol. But anyway. This is for you, Sei! I hope you like it.

* * *

**BEAUTIFUL LIE**

* * *

In his mind, he could always pretend he was hers.

He could always pretend, clouded in lies, that she smiled at _him _in a blessed, angelic way that she gives to her people. Fed by rare sunlight in the sky, she continues to bloom before them all – the only natural beauty in the grey scale land. But where as she smiles for her audience, for her people before her, the smile's never turned his way, because he's cloaked in the shadows hid by the darkness, and watches from the highest rooftops and behind the filthiest, grainiest walls of her industrial fortress. He is not one of them.

Her blonde hair, cloaked in the clear, long veil and pinned up, glows in the sunlight. She turns her gaze towards the people on her left, her adoring public. They cheer for her, they cry with joy for her, they are so happy for her. The smile on her face is as blessed and angelic as always – it never loses that natural radiance. Clothed in a revealing white, she continues to walk down the isle, broken chains on her left wrist and ankle.

He stands on the tallest tower of the open church, the metal creaking slightly beneath his feet. The sun is setting, and already there are dark streaks in the sky, giving the scene a unique tinge. Light blue lights crawl up and down the clear pipelines, taking turns to spill down this turn and the next, as though the colour is blood and the pipelines are veins. The wind blows at his back, making his black cloak move, and he just watches the scene before him with a grim, blank and emotionless look on his face. His hood is pulled right down, almost touching his nose, and his goggles are hanging around his neck. He has to tilt his head back to gaze at her, and at this level, he doesn't have to keep his red locks completely hidden.

He sees images of them, happy and fully alive, walking along the roads without fear. She's smiling _for him, _and he doesn't have to hide anything either – he smiles too. She's holding onto his arm and telling him wild stories about opening that bank and how people tried to rob it, on how this road was all cracked from war and she's pleased that it's fixed, on how she can walk through the streets without bodyguards anymore, because she feels safe _with him. _He smiles a little at the pictures and wishes it was like that again.

Or wishes it _existed at all_ – a fabrication of his imagination. Or was it honest and real?

The images he makes and the ones that actually happen are so undefined now, that whatever he sees in his head or remembers is _true and honest and it really really did happen – _even if it didn't. He had something with that princess of the Rochefort Region, soon-to-be Queen, he honestly did – but he dreamt it all, pretending, a fantasy – and he won't believe it – and if he can't have her, _no one can. _

He turns his head to the altar where the priest stands, holding onto the ancient book of God. In front of him is another man, also dressed in white, sashes everywhere, red outlines, a mark all over the outfit that the Korean's recognised for many, many years, even after the man was cleansed of the being – a silver dragon on his shoulder, holding onto a golden chain – and the jet black, spiked hair –

The colours in the pipelines below him have morphed into green, and go back down, before changing into an eerie, haunting red, along with the rest of the church's lines. What's left of the sun only adds to this, and whilst he's sure _she _sees love and passion and hope – maybe even him too, and the masses – he only sees blood, hatred, anger, sorrow – his vision is red, but he's still collective and deathly silent. The music played on the large, steely organ doesn't settle him.

He keeps saying to himself how he should've been there, how he should've been the one to turn around with a wide smile on his face and have his breath lost, how he should've been the one in the monster's shoes instead. Just because the devil within is gone doesn't mean that the man is now free and pure – he's still a monster, and he'll hurt her in ways unimaginable – he can't see the look of genuine love on the Prince's face, because honest to God, he swears the man will break her heart, tear her to pieces and then rip her apart.

She smiles that same, blessed, angelic smile to her King-to-be, the ruler of the Mishima Faction, and it kills him inside. Every tooth is like a knife. He exhales firmly and watches them turn to face the priest, hand in hand. Two regions, two empires about to be united in peace and love, and two hearts about to entwine for the same reasons. His expression twists into a scowl for a split moment before vanishing entirely. The emotionless mask is back on his face, the one he intends to uphold for the rest of his life, however long that'll be after this; and he turns to look at the long, heavy, black case standing by his left leg.

The priest's voice echoes throughout the halls, like the music before him, "We are gathered here today…"

He bends over and opens the case, hearing it squeal open due to old hinges. They don't ring throughout the church, but he continues to listen to the priest blankly, hoping to hear some sign of resistance from the youth. He only hears partial silence, and he cringes at the deep voice accepting her as his wife. He stares blankly at the weapon before him, grabbing the metal and feeling it in his cold hands. He turns to look to his right, down at the altar. He pauses and listens, and though he can only see the back of her head, he turns back to his work as soon as she speaks –

"I do."

He pieces the sniper rifle together. These clicks echoing only on the canopy as opposed to those of its case. If the place had been guarded, he would've been caught and struck down. As it was, they were entirely too carefree, too happy and too peaceful with the wedding, and it'd be the downfall. He feels a few raindrops from the coming storm touch his skin, and the sun is almost completely gone. The colours change to white and rise upwards. He's surprised that his hands aren't shaking as he does everything and swiftly takes aim, his vision filled with golden hair. His mind races with images of what could've been – of what _should've _been – _of what it is to him; _and his face is entirely emotionless.

But just because it's all a lie, that doesn't make it any less beautiful.

And that's why he has to pull the trigger. Not for diplomatic reasons, not for hatred – for love.

He shoots.


End file.
